The Darkness:  Part One of the London Trillogy
by Joan D'Arc
Summary: There are three kinds of heroes.  There are those who save by creating.  There are those who save through prevention.  And there are the few who save by destruction.  These are the works of one such hero, and those who deem themselves her colleagues.
1. One:  A Scientist, First and Foremost

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."

-Edgar Allan Poe

It was a nightmare.

Not the nightmare in which one desperately thinks that one is going to die, and wakes up just before the moment of death arrives. It was the sort of nightmare in which an already terrible situation is made even worse by the fact that anything that could possibly go wrong does, especially if one has taken special measures to ensure that thing which has gone wrong should not have gone wrong.

More importantly, where the bloody hell was my revolver when I needed it most?

I spun partway down the steps of my staircase, my progress hampered by a large and hideous end table given to me as a present by a family I once saved from a...as of this moment, that was utterly irrelevant. The relevant part is that the end table bestowed to me hampered my progress down the stairs and quite possibly saved me from suffering a broken neck. I realized with grim regret that I should have locked the door to the laboratory, and made a silent resolution to do so provided I survived this.

I lunged down the stairwell and hurried into my study, vaguely remembering laying the gun there hours previously as I dismissed my assistant.

I entered the room. It wasn't there.

I wheeled about in some confusion and wondered what was going on today, and if my day of reckoning had finally come. I hoped nobody realized I had made such an elementary mistake should my mutilated body be discovered.

I paused as I heard slow, heavy footsteps begin to make their way up the stairs. I may have paled slightly at their approach. I never did find out.

The important thing was not to panic. To panic meant death, had my professor not drilled that into my head from day one?

Search for potential weapons. Even the most ordinary objects can be put to use.

Unfortunately, I failed to stock my chambers with high explosives or anything resembling a chemistry set. Blasting the foul creature was not an option. And that blasted cleaning man had cheerfully neglected to leave the ammunition to the shotgun EXACTLY where I told him to leave it. What was the world coming to?

The footsteps stopped outside my door. I heard heavy breathing and excited pants.

The door slowly swung open. I breathed a silent curse when I realized I had forgotten to barricade it.

From without entered a creature that could have stepped out of a deranged child's imagination.

It stood at eight feet tall, a powerful stench of rotting flesh emanating from its form. What could be called its skin was a horrible greenish gray, like a corpse.

It WAS a corpse, albeit with two heads and six horns. More specifically, it was a specimen of the ambulans mortuus, which literally translates to 'walking dead'. A somewhat pedestrian term for it is 'zombie'. It is a dead body inhabited by a virus that reanimates the basic movement capability and senses but with enhanced strength, speed, jumping height and an unquenchable bloodlust. It does not feel pain, and so the only way to stop such a monster is to render its ability to function useless. A popular method is to burn them with fire, but some prefer to discombobulate them. And because it is not hampered by injury, conventional weapons are next to useless. You could blow the head off of one and it would still have time to rip your throat out before it realized it was dead. Thus, the problem.

I had acquired this particular beast on behalf of a colleague who wished to study it and its various subspecies. The colleague was understandably not one I often associated with.

Back to the situation at hand. I knew with a sick certainty that this could very well be the end of me, and I had nobody but myself to blame. Why, oh, why had I failed to lock that door?

The creature lumbered forward, confident that it had me. It had every reason to. I was only human, and had nowhere to run. If I did not find a permanent solution to this problem, I would very likely be found the next morning in pieces. Small pieces.

I inched forward, praying to God I would find what I needed taped beneath the desk, not taking my eyes off the creature I had so unwisely brought into my home. I immediately reflected on this thought and found it foolish; I have had mishaps much worse than my current one and had gotten out of all of them fine.

I merely wish I could recall when, and what I had been doing.

Warily watching the monster, my wandering fingers encountered a bulky, metallic object. I pulled it out slowly, revealing an antique crossbow with a single shot. Because the creature had no sentience, it would not comprehend the implications of the weapon I held.

All I needed now was an opportunity. The shot in the crossbow wouldn't nearly be enough to kill it, but it would buy me time while it tried to remove the bolt from wherever I chose to fire it. I knew for a fact that I had a firebomb in the laboratory in case the creature got loose. If I could only get to the lower floor...

Sudden movement! The creature lunged forward with something approximating a screech. I ducked out of the way as it flailed past and fired a single shot into the back of its left head. It may not be able to feel pain, but nothing likes it when you fire something into one of their heads. As it weaved about, confused, I turned and fled the room, keenly aware of the pursuing footsteps.

I threw myself over the banister to give myself ground. The monster would be too stupid to think of throwing itself down the stairs.

Ten steps from the lab. So close...

I only now realised a sharp pain in my side. Looking down, I saw with disgust that the creature had managed to rake a clawed hand into my side, possibly nicking a rib in the process. I would have to treat the wound with hot water and carbolic acid later. If there was a later.

I lunged towards the door, hoping to shut and bar it before the creature got ahold of me. If I got to my lab, all would be well.

Too fast! I was caught from behind and thrown forward, landing painfully on the stone floor. I knew then I wouldn't be able to get up. I was going to die.

The poison secreted in the monster's claws was already working its way into my system, making me dazed and giddy. I looked up at the creature, its remaining head howling triumphantly. I wondered if it would hurt. Death, I mean.

I closed my eyes and prepared for the end.

The end never came, at least not then.

I heard loud shrieks and gurgles and a series of bangs that sounded like gunshots. The sounds were all slightly muffled, as if they were coming from far away. I opened my eyes and saw the creature fall backward. Standing behind it was a man I thought I would not get to see again.

The man paused for a moment, checking to see if the creature was really dead. Satisfied with what he found, he hurried to my side.

"Professor! Professor Black! Are you all right?" He asked in what seemed to be urgency. The words seemed out of sync with his mouth.

My vision was fogging at the edges. Left arm numb.

"Professor! Say something, please!"

I was slipping away...

"PROFESSOR!"


	2. 2:  A Doctor, Secondly

"I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all."

-Richard Wright

Time passed. I slipped in and out of painful consciousness and restless unconsciousness. Sleep had no relief for me; waking brought no joy. When I was aware of myself I was in pain, and when I wasn't I was haunted by the memories of things and deeds I would take to my grave.

"Professor? Miss London?"

A voice reached me in the darkness, a voice full of concern and fear. I resisted the impulse to attempt to call back and tell him that I was all right, crushing the human desire to reach out and touch a fellow being. I had been wounded by a Walking Dead. It was highly likely that I could become one of them, if my assistant had not reached me quickly enough.

I cursed my helplessness. I was the Qui Speculatur Monstra, One who Studies Monsters. I should not be exhibiting such weakness at such a small injury.

"Are you in pain, Miss London? Will you be all right?"

I must have said something irritable, because I heard something that might have been a laugh.

"And good morning to you too, Professor. Do you want morphine?"

I told him I bloody well didn't, and if he dared go anywhere near me with such a drug I would have him discharged from my services immediately. There was a chuckle, and then a second voice: "She'll be fine. She's too stubborn to die. Give me the needle-I'll do it, she can fire me all she wants to, I don't work for her."

A pinprick in my left arm. Darkness once more.

*Third Person Perspective*

The sun rose slowly, bathing all before it in golden-red rays of light. That is, everything except the residence of 222 Loketer's End, which shunned the brightness of day as if in defiance of the light. The air without was warming up with heat and the chatter of life as the city woke up again, but within it was cool and dark and silent.

A loud yell of horror sounded from one of the lower floors. And with that, the day began.

"I hate this place," one man grumbled to the other as he entered the building again after disposing of a bucket full of human brains outside, "Every damn time I come here I get nightmares. Tell your boss I'm sick of all the horrible things I find when I'm in her house."

The second man nodded in silent assent. Both looked at the front door and then at each other.

One man was in his early thirties, with reddish blonde hair that swept over his ears and seemed to defy the laws of gravity. His eyes were a hazel color, and had a sneaky air to them...almost as if the man would try to pick your pocket, which he often did. And succeeded.

The second man was slightly younger, no older than twenty-five, and had a distinctly medical air about him-perhaps it was the way he stood, or the way he looked at one, as if analyzing every detail. He also had the slightly weary look of a doctor, the sort of weariness one gets from having to deal with an irascible patient. And who could blame him? He had spent the better part of a week tending to London Black.

"What'd you say your name was again?" The first man asked the second, as if only just remembering that people had ordinary things like names.

"William Watson."

"Like, Doctor Watson? In Sherlock Holmes?"

"Believe me, I have never gone to Afghanistan. I do not intend to, either...who knows what London would get into if one left her unattended for too long?"

The first man laughed heartily. Watson looked pleased, and then remembered:

"So sorry. We've been together for a week and I still haven't caught your name."

"Hale," the first man laughed, "Hale Bishop. Ironic, isn't it?"

"How so?"

"A bishop is a holy man. And I'm a thief!" He threw his head back and roared with laughter.

"That's not something you yell out loud, no matter where you are," A grim voice said behind him.

London Black was awake.

*Watson's Perspective*

London Black has always denied that she was beautiful. In a sense, she was right-the ever-present dark circles under her eyes from long nights of working in the lab took their toll, as did her unfortunate eating and sleeping habits. She was too pale, too thin and angular to be beautiful. Her hair, in its choppy layers, was not glossy or silky, and was rarely pinned up or brushed and yet somehow managed to stay relatively neat. Her eyes were a dark, cobalt shade of blue, and London had a grim set about her jaw. She rarely smiled, and was always sarcastic.

One does not think of London Black when beauty is brought up. And yet she is beautiful, in the same way one can find a raven or a serpent beautiful. Not like I'm nearly foolish enough to tell her, however.

The professor was somehow dressed in her normal attire, which was a white shirt and a simple grey waistcoat. She also wore black slacks, but had only her bare feet on the floor. I noticed that there were raised bumps on the side from the bandages that covered where the creature attacked her.

"You may leave now, Hale," She said sharply to the other man, "Jewels don't steal themselves, after all..." The man bowed, shook my hand, swept his hand off the hatstand and left. The door slammed shut with a reverberating thud.

"That takes care of him," London said briskly, "And now to attend to business. You burned the corpse, I trust?"

I affirmed that I had.

"Good," she sighed. "I shall have to apologize to my colleague later today. Where is my tea, doctor?" I turned away so that she could not see my smile.

"I'm getting it, Professor."

The professor was just beginning to relate the fantastic story of the monster when we heard a knock at the door. A small frown creased her brow.

"I don't recall anyone making an appointment. Is that the milkman?"

I barely suppressed a smirk. "No, Miss London. The milkman refuses to come around until you agree to refrain from leaving severed limbs in full view of the front.

"He has a long wait ahead of him, then," London retorted, "Go see who it is already!"

When I opened the door and readied to greet the newcomer, I was met with a horribly pale man, gasping and sweating. He had clearly been running for quite some distance.

"Is this the residence of the American, London Black?" He spoke with a British accent.

"Yes," I affirmed, surprised, "Might I ask-"

But he had already rushed past me into the parlor. Following him, I heard the professor say "For heaven's sake, man! Whatever is the matter?"

"Miss Black, Miss Black..." the man moaned. London grew impatient.

"Yes, I am she. What is the matter, sir?"

"I was told...I have to give you...oh, please, PLEASE help me," he screamed. London took a small step back and instinctively covered her injured side.

"I tell you the truth, I cannot help you if I do not know what is wrong," she said coldly, making sure to remain out of reach should the newcomer prove to be a madman.

"He said you had the antidote, and that you'd give it to me if I delivered the package...oh, please hurry, I can feel it starting! My head...this is the end..." He moaned, sinking to his knees and clawing at his chest. There was something wild in his eyes and mannerisims that can only come from sheer terror.

"A glass of water, Watson," the professor said quickly, and I obeyed. Instead of offering the man a drink, however, she dumped it over his head. The man's mouth fell open in a perfect, comical O.

"What poison?" she demanded sharply, "What did he give you and how long ago?"

"The...the first of the month, I think..."

"Last month?"

The man threw his head back and let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a howl. "THIS month, THIS month, I would hardly be alive if it was last month!"

"What were you poisoned with?" I marveled at the woman's ability to remain calm. I myself was feeling panicked.

"Tipota! The man said it was Tipota!"

London blinked, and something imperceptible crossed her face.

"Tipota, you say? Are you quite sure?"

The man howled again. "I think I'd bloody well know what I've been poisoned with! YES! Tipota, that comes from the Follis tree on the Isle of Demons!"

Something else crossed London's face. Grim understanding. And was that anger?

"Of course. Watson, remain with our guest while I fix up the antidote. Alert me at once if his condition changes!" And with that, she entered a back room. I could hear the pans and vials clattering, as well as a Bunsen Burner start up.

The man was now becoming rather well acquainted with the parlor floor.

"Oh, this is the end," he moaned, "I can feel my heart exploding! The darkness...it's closing in on me...I can feel myself fading away..."

I assured him it was not over yet, and that he was going to be fine. He moaned again in response.

London bounded into the room with a syringe half full of some greenish liquid, and knelt to the man's side. Jabbing a syringe into the man's neck, she pressed the plunger down slowly and smoothly removed the needle. The man groaned in relief.

"Thank you," he moaned, "Thank you..."

"An unfortunate side effect of the medicine is that it puts the taker to sleep," London added, "Do you know the name of the man who poisoned you?"

"Oh, yes...how could I forget?"

The professor stiffened, almost imperceptibly. "What was his name?" she asked in a low voice.

"Fane Steele," The man answered before dropping off to sleep, and I saw the horror in which London looked at the man, as if he carried the plague.


	3. Third:  False Poisons and True Threats

"**Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent, intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash."**

**Louis Aragon**

Several seconds passed, but London seemed content to simply kneel there and watch the chest of our guest rise and fall.

"Fane Steele?" I asked mildly, interested to see the effect the name had on her. She shifted her head upward so that the professor could glare at me through one eye.

"You will not repeat that name in my presence," London snapped, "Not ever." Brushing a few dark locks out of her eyes, she stood up and surveyed the prone body of the man. She took a deep breath, as if composing herself, and then turned to me.

"Put this man in the upstairs bedroom," she said quietly, "And do not touch him with your bare hands. When you are finished, come see me." And with that, London turned and walked into the back room, casually discarding the syringe into a bucket as she went. I watched her go for a moment before donning gloves as she had commanded, slinging one of the man's arms around my shoulders and, part-carrying and part-dragging him, made my way upstairs.

I returned to the back room in the parlor to observe her putting away several small, labeled bottles into a nearby cabinet. I admired how her black hair had an almost bluish glow in the lamplight before clearing my throat. She turned, and seeing me, asked how the patient's condition was.

"His breathing's regular, but the man's sound asleep." She nodded slowly, before turning back to her task.

"He would be," the professor said as she put away a solution of iodine, "That solution I gave him contained a ten-percent solution of morphine, with food coloring for effect."

At these words, I gaped at her. London Black detested lying—had she not repeatedly denounced it as 'the worst level of buffoonery'? She would rather tell the full, blatant truth rather than coat her words, which was why she had made so many enemies.

"That wasn't the cure?" I gasped, fully comprehending what the professor had done. She had signed the man's death certificate as surely as if the paper was in front of her.

She looked at me with a clear, steady gaze. "There is no cure for Tipota, Watson." She said seriously. I was astonished—to have the professor tell such a lie about something like this was so completely out of character for her that for several seconds I could not speak.

"But then—but then—how long does he have?" I whispered, as if the man sleeping above us could somehow hear. The professor stared at a point in the distance, doing some calculations.

"Oh, it's impossible to tell, really—there are so many factors. I'd say…thirty, perhaps forty years." She said finally, jotting a few numbers down on a paper and then nodding in agreement with herself.

If my jaw had hit the floor earlier, at this point it was somewhere in the basement.

"You said—there wasn't a cure—"I said weakly, wondering what was going on today and if it was all a rather strange and convoluted dream. London turned her back on me and pulled out a small bottle containing painkillers from the nearest cabinet, wincing as the shelf pressed on her injured side.

"There is no cure for Tipota, particularly not Tipota from the Follis tree, Watson," she said as she casually poured two pills into her open palm and swallowed them, "Because there is no Tipota. The word is Greek for 'Nothing'."

I stared at her in further astonishment, if it were possible. "Nothing?"

"No, it is Greek for 'Stupid Assistant,'" London snapped, for a moment her characteristically sarcastic self, before leaning with her back on the counter and holding me in her gaze, "Yes. Tipota means 'Nothing'. The Follis tree does not exist either—and here I was certain you would catch on, Doctor, seeing as how you studied the language—it is merely Latin for 'Fool'. So when our friend told the poor man above us that it was Tipota that he had, he meant it literally."

I shook my head in awe at her acuity before a sudden thought struck me.

"Professor. If the poison really was a fake, why didn't you just tell him that?" I demanded, determined to make at least some sense of the matter. London smiled rather sadly at me, almost in pity.

"Why do you think?" she asked, pushing away several strands of hair from her eyes as she spoke, "If I had told our guest then and there that he had not been poisoned, he would have thought me one more cog in our friend's cruel trick, and probably would have keeled over then and there out of the utter fear and despair that would have taken hold of him. Imagine the irony, Watson—the lie sends him all the way here, only for the truth to kill him!" She looked away as if thinking about other things, and then looked at the package that had, until now, sat unregarded on the nearest table. She took the package gently, weighing it in one hand before sniffing a corner cautiously. London looked up at me.

"This is not a bomb, then. I shall go to my study, and may not return for a couple of hours. You are to remain at the man's bedside and attend to any needs that arise. Alert me at once should the man's condition change!" And with that, she strode out of the room, parcel tucked under one hand.

I stood there for several seconds in silence before bursting into laughter.

Fane Steele…

The name echoed through my mind as I stared at the unconscious man's face. It had a most peculiar effect on London—invoking a mixture of respect, anger and…dare I say it? Fear?

The man stirred, bringing me back to reality. A moan escaped his lips.

I took his pulse and examined his eyes, noting that his heart rate was almost normal, but the pupils still slightly dilated. All at once, the man bolted upright with a loud yell.

I hushed him quickly. "It's all right, you're fine, and you're safe now!" I told him urgently, worried that his cry would aggravate the professor further. The man gazed wildly about before seeming to realize that his emergency had passed.

"Where am I?" he asked, still talking in a British accent. I smiled gently, careful not to make any sudden movements.

"You're at 222 Locketer's End—residence of the American, Professor Black. I'm her assistant—William Watson. I should go tell Miss Black you're up-"

Quiet footsteps sounded behind me, and I turned to see the very woman I was speaking of.

Something was wrong with her—she was even paler than normal, and _normally _she was as white as a sheet. There was a strange glint in her eyes, and her left hand was trembling almost imperceptibly. I noted small burn marks on the knuckles of her left hand.

"Good Afternoon, my good man," she said politely to the bedridden man, "I am glad to see that you are awake again. Do you need anything? Water, perhaps, or something to eat?"

The man waved her offer. "No, my good lady. I must thank you for saving my life—I am forever in your debt." I saw the look she gave me, and I felt odd knowing that we shared a truth…and the lie.

"I was wondering if you could perhaps tell us your name, and how you got into this awful mess," London continued, her voice as sharp and steady as a surgeon's scalpel, betraying none of the inner turmoil I had glimpsed.

"Oh, yes. My name is John Baker, a resident of Chelsea, in England. I own a variety of townhouses and tenements in the nearby area, you see." The professor wordlessly pulled over a chair and sat down, cobalt eyes gazing with a new intensity at the man as he spoke.

"Recently, I had a tenant for one of my more favorite properties," Baker went on, "A charming young man by the name of Fane Steele. He was very polite to me, you see—always paying the rent on time, inviting me round for tea…that sort of thing. I never quite got his occupation (He was always rather vague on the subject), but other than that, he seemed all right.

"One afternoon he asked me to call, and made a passing comment to the suggestion that it would be worth my while. I obliged him, and when I entered he was the very image of courtesy. He sat me down and offered me tea, which I accepted. There was an odd look in his eyes, but I didn't concern myself about it until later.

"'Are you feeling quite well, Mister Baker?' he had asked me as he poured (he had rather the same manner of speech as your friend here, Doctor), 'You look somewhat pale.' I told him I was rather stressed, as it turned out that a few of my tenants had been revolutionaries. I had been forced to evict the lot of them, and had quite a bit of explaining to do to the Constables. He nodded in sympathy, though I wonder if he truly was concerned at the moment. 'You can never tell if a man's hiding something,' he opined sadly, 'it's impossible to take one's word for it these days.'

"I agreed with him and bemoaned the rarity of good people these days, and it was then that I saw a package wrapped in brown paper, perched upon the kitchen countertop. It struck me as odd because there was no postage marked on the thing, and the nearby papers were all singed and blackened. Fane caught my glimpse and smiled.

"'Ah, I see you've caught a glimpse of my newest acquisition. The package,' he smiled as if he knew something I didn't, 'A gift to a…colleague. I'm certain that sh—that they will appreciate it, as I had gone through some trouble to obtain such an item.' I felt a nagging suspicion that I was here for Steele's own benefit and not for mine, and so I politely asked him what business required my presence. He seemed surprised by the question, glanced at the clock, and asked me if I had an appointment. I lied to say I had, and got up with the intent to leave as quickly as possible. I was no more than six steps away from the door when I collapsed.

"When I awoke, I was unable to move or speak. There was a cloth over my eyes, and I heard faint footsteps. A hand pulled away the fabric, and I saw myself looking into Steel's face—except that this time, his face was malicious and his eyes mad.

"'Good. You've awoken consciousness,' he had told me, 'I was beginning to worry that I had miscalculated the dosage. How are you, my good man?' and with that, he pulled up a chair and sat next to me, plucking a syringe from the bedside table as he did so.

"'I have a favor to ask of you, you see,' he said as casually as if we were having the discussion over a light Sunday lunch, 'The package you saw is destined for America, to that colleague of whom I told you. Unfortunately, I will not be able to take it there myself, as I must leave the country tomorrow. Post is not an option, as you know, as it is so utterly unreliable. And it is of the utmost importance that it reaches its destination intact, untouched, and in time.' Here his eyes grew colder, and he smiled mockingly at me, twirling the needle between his slender fingers.

"'And that is where you come in, Mister Baker,' he said. His thumb pressed on the plunger briefly, and a single droplet of liquid seeped out of the tip, sparkling like the finest crystal.

"'The Follis tree is a beautiful thing,' he said, almost to himself, 'It is utterly unique in its geographical location—found exclusively on the Isle of Demons, a few degrees north of the Galapagos Islands! From its bark oozes a marvelously slow-acting poison, with extremely entertaining effects—The island natives call the toxin the 'Tipota'. Do you know how long it takes for Tipota to kill its victim, Mister Baker? Just over twenty days before the effects manifest themselves; that is, clouding of the vision, swelling of the heart and so on. It can be administered to the victim in any number of ways; from injection to consumption to absorbing it in the skin (They say it is what _really_ killed Cleopatra!) and allows the assassin a very generous head start before the toxin kills. But now I ramble—back to the task at hand.' He leaned forward slightly, and I saw the insanity that filled his eyes.

"'Please,' I had begged him, 'for the love of God—' But his expression darkened at my words.

"'God, you say?' he whispered, twirling the needle between his fingers, 'You think God can save you, here? If you must pray to anyone, pray to me—for is it not I that holds you from death now? 'Fane shook the needle in my face, mocking laughter erupting from his mouth. After a few seconds, he composed himself.

"'Here are your instructions,' he said to me, lazily waving a slip of parchment before my eyes, 'you are to bring this package to Richmond, New York, in America. There you will travel to 222 Locketer's End, where the American scientist London Black resides. She knows the antidote to Tipota, and will administer it to you, but only if you get there in time. Here, I have written it on this paper so that you will not forget. You have twelve days…starting now!' And with that, he stabbed the needle into my chest, pushed the plunger down slowly, pulled it out and then tossed it aside. He then gathered up his coat and a satchel, left the package next to me on the bed, and left…his laughter ringing through the halls behind him." Baker took a long, shuddering breath as he finished his tale. London nodded slowly.

"I see," was all she said. The professor stood up, did a brief examination of the man, and then finished, "You are still recovering from the effects of the antidote. You shall have to remain here for a few hours, until you are strong enough to return to England. Watson—you must attend to this man's every need. I shall be in the laboratory for the remainder of the day, and am not to be disturbed. Good day to both of you." And with that, she turned and left. Baker and I were left to ponder the ringing silence.

"Steele said Miss Black was his colleague," the other man said at last, "What is it that they do, exactly?"

I smiled as I recalled the zombie attack three nights ago, and all the various escapades that the professor had forced me to join her on in her quest to hunt and eradicate monsters.

"They hunt the Darkness;" I answered slowly, "But the Darkness hunts them too."


End file.
